Predators
by Baralach
Summary: Thorongil and his cousin Celoneth travel to Minas Tirith to join the company of the citadel of the Kings, making friends with the sons of Ecthilion in the process - Help me get over this bout of writers block - R&R please!


Chapter One: Wolfprints In The Mud

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Disclaimer – I do not own the characters or locations used in this story. I have borrowed them from Professor Tolkien for your reading pleasure. 

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NOTE: None of the characters were hurt in the writing of this story…. Yet.

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The Prey glanced sharply at the curving horizon before it, absorbing the dusty sunlight into green and brown eyes surrounded by a mud streaked face and damp, dirty and sun bleached blonde hair.

It was the thirtieth day of the hunt and the Prey was tired, hungry and anxious.

It began in the Gap of Rohan and now in the Nindalf marshes the Prey found itself crouching down among the weeds and hummocks of mosses taking a sip of warm, stale water from a nearly empty canteen. No sounds did the prey make in this process and there were few markings left for one to be able to tell that it had passed through and stopped for a moment here, but what few there were seemed to be enough for the Hunter.

Watching from far off it sat on an ancient tree stump and polished an ornate dagger with a rag.

The Prey was clever, it had shaken the Hunter off for several days by laying false tracks and mimicking the tread marks of a wolf with wooden devices strapped to the bottom of its boots – unfortunately, though, during the many days where muddy and murky water lay knee high, the devices were pried loose and lost. These the Hunter had found later.

So now the Hunter could easily read the human footprints in the mud, when there were marks to be found – the Prey was clever, as I said before, and could hide its tracks very well without the help of false wolf-prints.

Now our Prey became restless and began to quickly move once again, in a crouched sprint toward the hills rising up out of the east.

Out of the bog our poor and exhausted Prey climbed and into the green garden land of Ithilen.

Taking post high in a tree top our Prey rested once more and stretched its long and cramped legs, massaging the sore muscles and taught tendons with care, but it feared to remove its boots lest its feet swell and become to large to put the boots back on again.

Again the Prey took out its canteen and took a sip, swilling the water about and peering in the mouth to see how much it yet contained. There were only perhaps three more mouthfuls. The Prey reached into its now mostly emptied satchel and pulled out a piece of hard and stale bread, wrinkling its nose at the greying chunk.

'Well, if I am found soon then at least I won't die of starvation or thirst,' the Prey joked dryly. Of course, to be caught meant something worse than thirst and starvation put together, 'but this must end somehow!'

Now our Hunter, clad in greens, browns and greys, crept steadily up the hills out of the bog and emerged into the sweet smelling Ithilen. 

'No doubt my quarry has made false steps to throw me off, but I will guess that the caves and hidden stream will be the destination point of the true path. I am almost out of water and so must my Prey be.'

The Hunter advanced into the garden, keeping close to the tall and old trees that grew in a maze towards the rocky parts where water flowed up out of the ground.

Little did he know that our Prey, now the Predator, followed his movements from the tree-tops, walking calmly from one mighty limb to another, tree-to-tree, as silent and deadly now as the Hunter. 

Both moved closer and closer to the caves, both with bow bent and arrow notched and ready, but once the Hunter reached the mouths of the caves he set aside his bow and drew his sword. This was the moment our Prey had been waiting for and the Hunter heard not as it jumped down from the tree it hid in and advanced behind the Hunter.

The Hunter, who sensed the presence of another, spun - sword resting against the Prey's throat. The Hunter felt something press against its chest, the point of an arrow aimed straight at its heart.

This position was held for a long, stress filled moment, until both broke out laughing and their weapons were lowered and put away.

"Gotcha," the Prey cried joyfully, slapping the Hunter on the back.

The Hunter snorted, "Hardly! I knew you would be at the caves."

"But I wasn't," a sparkle shone brightly in the Prey's eyes, "I have been watching and following you from the tree tops since you passed over the border."

"Oh, Nethiel," Aragorn complained, "That wasn't fair! You are much lighter than I and can do such Elvish tricks."

Nethiel shrugged, "You should have paid more attention during all those years you spent among the Elves. You just need to take notice of your surroundings and yourself."

Aragorn scratched his bristly chin and chuckled, "I guess so, cousin. Oh, by the way," He added with a mischievous grin, "you forgot these somewhere in the mud a few days ago."

Nethiel glared as the young ranger pulled out a mud-encrusted pair of false wolf paws and held them out to his admonishing cousin. She snatched them out of his hands and shook a fist at him before grinning and tossing them into the cave.

"They had you going for a while back there, didn't they? How did you figure out which were real wolf prints and which were mine? I never thought that there would be so many wolves in the Nindalf; I saw three packs! I am amazed that none followed after me, I wonder why they did not?"

"Which answer do you want?"

Nethiel shrugged, "how did you know which were mine?"

Aragorn lowered himself onto a rock and stretched his long legs, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. "You are quite a lot lighter than any wolf; you couldn't pass as a pup, either, because the paw prints were too large. Although," he added in an act of appeasement, "I only followed them at first because I lost all track of you and decided to see what this wolf looked like."

"Hmm… I suppose it was a tie, then? Good game," Nethiel sat down beside Aragorn and leaned against his shoulder. "How far and long is it now to Minas Tirith, cousin? I am starving, dirty, tired, and nothing more than a sight of the White City and I will be content."

Aragorn opened his mouth to speak but halted and both jumped to their feet, as a man seemed to materialize out of thin air before them, sword drawn, and say in a quiet voice, "The White City is not far, but it is a distance I think you won't survive if you do not declare yourself and your intensions at this moment!"

Aragorn, whose hands had immediately flown to the sword on his belt, drew and raised his blade calling, "who challenges us? You are cloaked and hidden by a hood, why should we declare ourselves to you?"

Nethiel was about to draw her long Elvish knives when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and threw herself into Aragorn, pushing him down and out of the path of a dart aimed at him. 

Before they knew which direction was up, hooded and cloaked men surrounded the two young rangers and their weapons were taken from them.

Rough hands pulled them up and held them in strong grips as the man, now identifiable as the captain of the men, walked close and eyed them suspiciously. 

"Now you see why you should declare yourselves to me?"

Aragorn clamped his jaw and stared angrily into the shadows under the man's hood.

The man now turned to the dirty and dishevelled Nethiel.

"And what is a woman, though a very savage and filthy one, doing in these lands? The enemy has not sent women spies before," he noted the sudden rage and disbelief flood into her eyes, "but perhaps you did not expect to be caught."

Another man stepped forwards, the lieutenant, and addressed the two prisoners.

"It is against the laws of these lands for any to pass through without the Steward's leave, and somehow I do not believe that you have acquired such a permission."

Aragorn, in a struggle to keep harsh words from forming, inhaled sharply and let it out in a long, slow hiss.

"Nay, we have not gained your Lord's permission as we have just entered these lands and are now making for his city. It is dificult to gain permission to go somewheres when you must get there first."

The lieutenant stepped closer and rested the point of his sword on the captive ranger's throat. "Captain, they are reluctant to tell us their reasons. The law states that we must…"

The captain waved his hand and pushed his lieutenant's blade away from Aragorn's exposed neck.

"I know the laws of these lands, lieutenant." The man bowed low and backed away, a grimance twisting his face at having being admonished infront of his men and the strangers.

"I also know that they make a good argument," he continued on, "so, where are you from and what is your purpose in the White City? I will tell you now that I am able to grant leave to pass through these lands if given good reason."

Nethiel cocked her head to the side and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, "really?"

Aragorn thought for a moment then glanced over at his kinswoman who nodded to him.

"I am Thorongil son of Thorondin of the Northern Dunedain, my companion is my comrade in arms and cousin, Celoneth daughter of Celair. We travel out of the north to Minas Tirith in hopes to dwell and draw our weapons alongside the warriors of the Citadel of the Kings."

The lieutenant snorted and the hodded captain turned to him.

"You have a comment, lieutenant Bricius?"

This man named Bricius bowed once more and pushed back his hood revealing a countenance like that of an orc; a nose broken several times and flattened to one side, scars stretching across his entire face, and sickly yellow-brown eyes.

"Nere has any traveller from the north come through the fen lands, only enemies of our city and spies from the east. What proof do you give that you are who you claim to be?"

The captain, who was gaining both rangers' grudging respect for his skills in debate, nodded and turned to his captives, "what proof do your offer that will plainly show your intent?"

Now Nethiel broke the awkward silence that hung as Aragorn/Thorongil thought, "did you take the time to notice our weaponry? My cousin and I were equipted in Imladris, the safe hold of Lord Elrond _Peredhil_. Our blades, bows and knives are Elvish wrought."

One of the hooded southern rangers came foreward with their weapons, displaying the fine elvish writing along the blades and distinct carving of the bows and long feathered arrows.

The captain motioned to the men holding Nethiel to let her go and pushed her bow and a single arrow at her.

"There is a yellow fruit in the tree ninty yards to the west. Bring it down."

Nethiel looked at him as if he were insane, "what on Arda for?"

The captain smiled under his hood, "You say you come from the Elf hall, I want to see how well you shoot. Surely, if indeed you come from where you say, you would have learned how to shoot from the Elves."

Aragorn/Thorongil looked at his cousin with alarm in his eyes, "_ha est haeron?_" is it too far? __

Nethiel laughed, "he should have chosen a smaller target, this is nothing after hunting with the twins and you."

An uneasy vibe came from the surrounding men as the light haired and dirty woman drew herself up to her full, and quite imposing height, bent her bow, the taut chord reaching past her ear, and let fly the Elvish dart.

Then fell a silence that seemed to stretch for hours as the arrow flew straight and the fruit fell to the ground, pierced dead centre by the arrow.

The captain smiled broadly now as the fruit was brought to him and he pulled the protruding dart out of it. He threw back his hood and bowed his head to Nethiel, motioning at the same time for Aragorn to be released.

"I appologise for this inconvienience, but it has become even more imperative that we stop any that enter these lands – and you must admit, you did, and still do, look like the cat who swallowed the canary. The dirt and comeing out of the fen doesn't help much, either.

"Why, by the White Tree, did you come 'round that way for? The journey is much longer and ten times more dangerous!"

Aragon smiled slightly, "well, we had our reasons, silly as they were, but now you have the advantage over us."

The captain nodded in agreement, "I suppose you did and I suppose I have. I am Maerthor, captain of the rangers of Ithilen and son of Ecthilion, Stewart of the realm of Gondor."

"We are honoured to make your acquaintance, Lord Maerthor," Aragon said, dipping his head.

Maerthor nodded polietly back and took Nethiel/Celoneth's hand and made as though to kiss it, stoping and looking up at the suprized woman with ammused eyes.

"I would kiss your hand, Lady Celoneth, but for two reasons. A, your kinsman is near and I would hate to provoke an end to this… friendship; and B," he paused, as though contemplating his next words, "it is quite dirty and I would rather not injest marsh dirt."

Aragorn and Nethiel both laughed heartily at this and the rest of the company of men, excluding the lieutenant Bricius, who was standing off from the group gazeing intently into the east and fingering his sword belt, joined in.

The company dispersed and left their captain and the two nothern rangers to talk.

A camp was set up, a cooking fire was started, and a pleasant banter begun aroung the fire by the men of Maerthor's company. 

A meal of stewed hares and vegtables was served and the men settled down for the night.

"You wish to join the company of the Citadel? I donot know how successful you shall be in being accepted; my elder brother Larithor heads up that battle group, and he is quite posssesive over those in it. He has only accepted those he has known since childhood, and they are few. The eldest son of Ecthilion was kept in a close seclusion and taught much by the wizard Mithrandir, other than his brothers he only had ten other friends of the same age."

Aragorn/Thorongil coughed on his carrot and laughed.

When Maerthor looked questionly at Nethiel, she could only shake her head and smile.

Of course, Aragorn, then known as Estel, had grown up with Elves as playmates – none could say that he had friends of the same age as him, except, of course, when his human cousins came to Imladris to visit. Nethiel remembered the first time she and her cousin met, although neither were allowed to know how exactly they were related – to keep Estel's identity secret yet – and they were less than compatible.

In fact, they had been kept apart for nearly eight years just because of how badly they fought the one visit when they were both nine years old. When they met again they were seventeen and their old hatred long forgotten, they became close friends and, when four years ago Estel learned of his true lineage, she and two of their cousins went together on their journeys to the deep south, far north, and as far into the east as they dared to go.

Now just the two had decided to travel to Gondor and aid their ancestor's kingdom in her battles.

"My dear and incurably idiotic cousin, whom I love like a little brother, laughs because he grew in a greatly similar environment, only – I'm afraid to say – he had even fewer companions of his own age, nay, his own race, than your elder brother." Maerthor looked even more puzzled so Nethiel added, patting his shoulder comfortingly, "He was fostered among the Elves."

The young man gazed in wonder at the northern ranger, "I am impressed! Thorongil, you must tell me all about the Elves, I have nere met or even seen one of the fair folk. Mithrandir has told me some of them, but only ancient tales and forgotten songs of deeds and heroics from the elder days. Larithor received the brunt of the wizard's teachings, so he could tell me more, but he is too busy to even greet his own brothers when they return from missions."

Here the son of Ecthilion grimanced, "Denethor and I barely ever see our brother anymore."

Here Aragorn could not help but Nethiel leaned closer and gave a reassuring smile, "I understand what you say; I've not seen my brothers for a long time, too. They are always either off and away somewheres, and my sister, who is not a warrior, is married and is too busy with her brood of children to visit kin or to receive them as guests."

Maerthor smiled kindly, "similar, but different in an almost pleasant way. Northern life sounds lovely in its simplicity – nothing like the intensities and pressures of being of a high house of Gondor."

Aragorn and Nethiel exchanged an ammused glance that Maerthor didn't catch.

'I suppose being the heir of Elendil and perhaps future king of your country doesn't count as stressfull.' Aragorn chuckled dryly to himself, 'knowing that you are the link in the royal chain descending hundreds of years and if you die before you bear a son…' Aragorn supressed a shudder at the thought of breaking the line that had endured the ravages of time and the near collapse of an entire nation. 'Sure, no pressure. No pressure at all.'

"Actually," Nethiel/Celoneth tugged at her ear, "I find it quite less than simple. My brothers have nearly been killed scores of times while on their missions and orc hunts, and my sister, while not a warrior and a mother of six, leads the defences of the villages of our kin. And myself, I find that I tend to always be off with my cousin, on some quest or another for Lord Elrond."

She said these words as passively as possible, yet Maerthor felt the sting in her words and he flinched, feeling like a clod for saying something so nieve.

Aragorn shifted in the uncomfortable silence as Maerthor averted his eyes and Nethiel glared.

"Sorry."

Nethiel sat for a moment, stormy and resolute, until her face broke out in a grin and a laugh escaped her lips.

"It's okay, I didn't exactly go into detail of the bat and it did sound like a lovely and simple life. One, I guess, everyone wishes there is being carried out somewheres due to their effort and losses. Their victories and defeats."

Maerthor nodded, "Thorongil, have you any brothers?"

"Yes," he began, then halted and flashed a lopsided grin, "well, I have two foster brothers, but no, I haven't any siblings by my mother and father. I have many cousins and we are close enough that it seems like I have an enourmous immediate family."

All forgiven and all forgotten, the son of the Stewart begged to hear about the Elves and the goings on in the northern realms and Aragorn and Nethiel readily complied.

The night was spent with tales of heroics and the hilarious antics of 'Thorongil', 'Celoneth', their cousins, and the inccorigable twins of Rivendell.

When sleep finally took them, only the night watch was awake. 

Except for one man that stayed alert and ever watchfull of the two northern rangers; the hooded sentinel watched with dull eyes that seemed to suck in the light shed upon them by the fire.

Bricius did not trust these northerners. Sure, their story seemed fine enough and they were a pleasant and happy pair, but something did not ring true in his mind and he was wary – ever wary – and slept not at all the whole night.

'Northern rangers and Elf-raised they may be, but they lie about something. Lies, lies, lies; that is what this world is coming to. Naught but lies and ashes in the breeze.'

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